ALL THE DIFFERENCE

They awake from dusty bed dreams
hungry and hope this is a feed day,
bawl for green alfalfa flaked across
brown powdered flats to assuage the dry
ache, some with calves at their sides.

But for the moment, they look O.K.
It’s every third day, not every other
where they stand and wait and the weak
are never full—everyday I multiply
and divide in my head: more bales

into pounds per animal averaged per day
to ignore them watching me load the truck
for somewhere else—don’t look too close,
don’t meet their eye. We gnaw square holes
in a stack under roof and roll the dice

betting on some early storms to change
lives, turn bare dirt into an emerald green
blanket grazed by black cows and calves—
that miracle we believe in every year,
that magic that makes all the difference.